


That Old-school Charm

by RunMild



Category: Night at the Museum (2006 2009)
Genre: Ahkmenrah is a certified badass, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Kidnapping, POV Second Person, Romance, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3618453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunMild/pseuds/RunMild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As it turns out, your soulmate is some kind of Egyptian Renn Faire reject. </p><p>Not that you're complaining.</p><p>Soulmate!au</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally this was going to be a one-shot, but, uh, it grew. Whoops.

That Old-school Charm

 

There are nights when this job doesn’t cause the slow, withering death of your soul. Tonight is not one of those nights.

“I just seated a couple guys in your section,” Marisol says. “Let me know if you need help.” She's wiping a stack of laminated menus with a wet cloth.   

You doubt you'll need help with a table of two, so you figure that's waitress code for ‘possible troublemakers, exercise caution.’ You take a deep breath before winding back toward the booths, pasting a customer service smile on your face.

_I am not paid enough to deal with lechers, rabble-rousers, or politicians at this hour._

The men are none of these.

“—cameras can’t work with all of that voodoo messing with the technology. We just have to deal with the human element and there’s only one guar—” the first man’s murmur cuts off abruptly when the second kicks him in the leg at your approach.

 _Real subtle, dudes_.

“What can I get you this evening?”

You hope they’re better at tipping than they are at espionage. You’re not going to call the police—what would you even say?—but if these guys try anything funny while on the diner’s premises you won’t hesitate to have Marisol show them the door; the tiny woman is as efficient and frightening as any bouncer.

“I think we both need a moment to look over the menu and _really consider our options_.” The last bit is obviously not meant for you and you valiantly repress an eye roll at his ‘coded’ talk.

“R _ight_.” You draw out the word drolly. “You just let me know when you’re ready.”

Guy number two narrows his eyes slightly; you smile placidly back.

Back at the serving station, Marisol has finished with the menus and has moved on to cleaning ketchup bottles.

“Any trouble? They looked shifty.”

“Nah, just a couple idiots.” They hadn’t even given you a suggestive once-over, so you consider them relatively harmless. “Although… I recommend taking a mental picture of their faces. I have a feeling we could be seeing their mug shots in the paper.” Marisol doesn’t even look concerned, turning back to her task.

“As long as I’m not called to testify; I need all of my shifts.”

Such is the life of a New York City waitress.

 

When you started at the diner—aptly named “Dailies,” as it was open twenty-four hours—you’d only intended it to be a stopover. It was a part-time position to make ends meet when you realized living in New York is really damn expensive and college is even more so.

Two years later, you’ve come to terms with the fact that this job may be the only one you can get even after you graduate. You pray fervently that the economy will pick up before you’re slammed with student debt, but for now you’re slogging through a weekly fifteen credit hours at school and thirty additional hours of under-tipped hell. Needless to say, you’ve gained superhuman powers of multitasking and operating on very little sleep.

Marisol, the one light in the darkness that is your job, keeps you afloat with anecdotes of her children and soulmates. On your first day, she catches you staring at the two curling lines of script on her biceps and the older woman grins knowingly.

“You see this one?” She’s pointing to the words that say ‘ _Dios, eres bella_.’ “He was my first. He’s lucky he’s so charming, otherwise…” She trails off, exasperated but fond. “We’ve been together since high school. It’s been a very _long_ decade and a half.” Her words are harsh, but she has a little smile caught on the corner of her mouth.

You don’t think fate would pair two people who truly hate each other.

“And the other?” You nod to her left arm.

“Ah, that’s Marcus. I met him five years ago.” The only words you can see are ‘ _Excuse me, ma’am—_ ’ as they snake around her arm.

“That’s really sweet. It must be great to be in a triad.” You cup a palm over your left hip, fingers splayed over your covered words. _One day_.

“Ha-! No, Marcus and Sebastian aren’t mutuals. Sebastian was not terribly happy with the thought of sharing after eight years. And Marcus hadn’t considered that his only mark would already be married with two kids.”

“How’d you convince them to cohabitate?”

“Oh, I didn’t convince them—I _made_ them.”

And that is Marisol in a nutshell.

 

Your shift ends just after one. There had been a few stragglers over the last hour and a half—glassy-eyed tourists, jet lag slowing their steps, and graveyard shift workers who ordered coffee strong enough to peel the enamel from their teeth—and the shady pair from earlier had slouched out thirty minutes ago.

You were right. They were awful tippers.

“I’m heading out. Need anything else?”

“I think I can handle it, chica. Go to bed.” You wave and the bell above the door chimes at your exit.

You step along the curb, deliberating between getting a cab or jogging a couple blocks to the subway.

Your problem is solved when two arms shove you into the back of a windowless truck.

“Hey-! You’re supposed to offer me candy first!”

You struggle against the man—and it is most definitely a man, you can tell from the muscle definition and the overwhelming smell of cheap cologne—as another pair of arms pins your wrists together and cinches them _way_ too tightly with a plastic zip tie. You can’t see their faces—they have stocking caps pulled over them—but you can see a yellow mustard stain on the shirt of the one in front of you.

You’re pretty sure you can venture a guess.

“ _Who tips eighty-four cents, assholes?_ ”

You flail your legs, landing a solid kick on the dude behind you. There’s a grunt of pain before he shifts your weight and then— _ouch_. Stars burst in your vision as he retracts his gloved fist. Your jaw and the whole lower half of your face is lit up with pain. You can feel your pulse where his fist connected, the beats of your heart traveling all the way up to your temple.

This is not how you envisioned your night going.

 _I have class at nine_ , you think incongruously.

“I don’t want any trouble from you. Just sit here and keep your mouth _shut_ and we’ll drop you off once we hit Jersey.”

“I will be the paragon of discretion if _you tell me what the hell is going on_.” _I will also barrel roll out of this truck the second you have your backs turned. Tell me your villainous plans so I can give the police the rundown_.

“We have a job to do. You’re our backup hostage if things go south.”

The guy behind you shoves you forward. You think you might be starting a collection of bruises.

 _I was really hoping for a longer evil dialogue_.

The back of the truck slams and— _huh, there’s a lock_ —your ideas of escaping that way shrivel and die a painful death.

They even took your purse, the bastards.

You’re alone in the back of what seems to be a delivery truck, minus the deliveries. You quickly discover that this is not an optimal way to travel, as the sharp turns send you sliding into the nearest wall. _I really hate riding coach_  you think with an edge of hysteria.

The truck stops at random intervals—presumably stoplights—before stopping entirely some indeterminable time later. The engine cuts and you strain to hear whether or not the men get out. The moments tick by.

 _Oh, screw it_.

“HEY, LEMME OUT OF HERE! KIDNAPPING! RAPE! MURDER!”

You bang your fists against the door, ignoring the way the ties bite into your skin. Well, not completely ignoring—it hurts like a bitch, and your hands are starting to purple from lack of circulation.

_There’s no way we’re out of the city, how is no one around? This is supposed to be the city that never sleeps!_

“YOU’RE REALLY LETTING ME DOWN, NEW YORK!”

New York must have heard you because the door swings open—nearly sending you out with it—and standing before you is—

A guy in a stocking cap. Of course.

“Dude, you’re really killing my dreams tonight.”

You can’t see his expression, but judging by his body language and the fact that he now has a vise-like grip on your hair, Thug Number 1 does not find you as witty as you find yourself.

“You. Had. _One._ Job.” He leans in close, voice lowered to a menacing baritone. “Keep quiet or I will give you something to scream about. _Do you want me to give you something to scream about?_ ” Your head shakes involuntarily as he yanks your hair like puppet strings. “I thought not.”

“Are you brutalizing our hostage, G—ary?” Thug Number 2 calls out from where he is approaching. The way he stumbles over the name leads you to believe it’s just an alias. Thug Number 2 is carrying a glow-y object under his left arm and is tugging another figure along with his right.

You wonder if they're robbing a convention because the newest addition to the party bus looks like some bizarre Halloweentown escapee. There’s gold glinting all over him—although chances are it's Party City gold and not the family fortune—but if they’re after the gold, why not take it off of him first…?

“Move over, princess, you have company.”

Thug Number 1—who is possibly ‘Gary’—shoves you aside without waiting for you to comply. You can add the bruise on your tailbone to the growing collection.

“Rude.” Your mutter echoes slightly as the new passenger steps into the space. You notice his wrists are bound, too. He seems much more blasé about this whole experience, though, his expression serene.

The door bangs shut.

“Is it still considered kidnapping if we’re adults?”

The guy’s head snaps toward you so fast you’re concerned about whiplash. You note vaguely that he really pulls off the guyliner aesthetic.

“…I’ve been rather worried about the situation that requires those words.”

Oh, he’s English, what a pleasant surpri—oh. _Oh_. Your hip nearly burns in recognition. 

Are soulmarks supposed to burn?

No one mentioned physically _feeling_ it.

You think the events of the night might be getting to you.

“…And are you more or less worried now?” _Because I, for one, am very worried_.

You are trying to do that whole ‘unflappable New Yorker’ thing, but you’re not a native, and being bound up in an unmarked van with your apparent _soulmate_ —who happens to be wearing a skirt—isn’t exactly doing wonders for your inner Zen.

“Surprisingly less. I’m simply pleased that neither you nor I are the kidnappers.”

 _Oh-kay. That is not comforting at all, possible criminal soulmate_.

“Do kidnappings happen often in your line of work?”

You motion with bound hands toward his outfit, your unspoken question being _what exactly_ his line of work entails. Birthday parties? Egyptian Renn Faires?

“You’d be surprised. My life has been very surreal as of late.” His eyes take you in, lingering on the zip tie that is currently cutting off the circulation in your wrists. “Are you alright?”

“More or less.” You don’t mention the bruise you can feel stretching up your jaw. Or the half dozen other bruises that will probably make you look like a domestic abuse victim in a few hours. ”Are you the cargo they’re after?”

He’s kneeling next to you now, reaching up to touch your face— _oh, he noticed; it must be a spectacular bruise_ —before seeming to realize his hands are attached.

“Just a moment.”

He stands, raises one knee and brings his wrists down hard over his leg, snapping the band. You try not to stare like this is very impressive and the slightest bit arousing. You’re pretty sure you fail because when he turns his attention back to you he has a gleam in his eye and the corners of his mouth are tilting up ever so slightly.

 _Smug bastard_.

“To answer your question, no, I am not what they are after. You may have noticed the tablet one of them carried; that is their prize.” His voice is low and calm, much too composed for someone who is being carted off to an undisclosed location at two in the morning. His fingers hover just over your cheek again, not touching. “That looks quite painful. May I?”

You nod.

This is not at all how you imagined meeting your soulmate, not in any outlandish daydream thought up by your ten-year-old self. At times there had been dragons or pirates—and you guess that these men could be classified as a kind of pirate (the boring land kind)—but never an empty truck and a soulmate in costume.

“So, uh, what’s with the fancy garb, pharaoh?”

His fingers are probing your cheek, likely checking for fractures. They pause momentarily at your inquiry.

“That… is a very long story, I’m afraid.” He sounds hesitant and almost apologetic. “For now, know this: that tablet is under my protection. When it was apparent that I was outnumbered and outgunned, I persuaded the men that they needed me in order to reap the rewards that they seek. I desperately need to retrieve the tablet and make it back to the museum—the American Museum of Natural History, to be exact—before sunrise.”

“…I caught maybe half of that. Tablet, museum, act of either heroics or stupidity—” He grins, not at all offended by your summary. “—it’s been a long night.”

“Well, you don’t have a concussion and other than some impressive bruising, your cheek is fine.”

“Thanks, doc. Hopefully I’ll manage the rest of this journey without further violence.”

His face darkens.

“By dawn they will be repenting for their sins on the scales of Anubis, where Ammit waits to devour their souls.” His voice drops in pitch, fist clenched against your cheek, although his thumb slides in slow circles over the discoloration.

You swallow and squeeze your knees together. You frantically tell your libido that that was a _death threat_ and not a sweet nothing. Your libido is pretty sure the two aren’t mutually exclusive. Your tongue darts out as you cast around for a response to his oath and his eyes follow the movement, darkening. His other hand slides over your knee, fingers tracing out some unknown message.  You can feel every stroke through your thin work pants; each point of contact is a live current, sparks of heat that gather in your abdomen before traveling further south.

“I don’t even know your name.” Your voice is breathier than you'd like.

This is so far out of your norm, light-years away from any encounter you’ve had with the opposite sex. There is an intensity, a tension like the magnetic pieces of your souls are trying to pull you back to each other. This is your soulmate nearly pinning you to the wall of a strange vehicle, not some strange, guileless boy, and you’d like very much for the magnets to snap into place, for him to hem you in and find just how the pieces fit—

“I am Ahkmenrah, fourth king of the fourth king, and I am going to kiss you.”

_Well, really, who am I to argue with a king?_


	2. Chapter 2

Your Aunt Sarah met her soulmate during a 5k run. Or rather, _after_ a 5k run. Apparently there’s not much talking during such things. (You hadn’t been born yet, but you’ve heard this story a hundred times. At _least_.)

Aunt Sarah is not a runner. Her athleticism starts and stops with her biweekly yoga class, but it was a charity run, and she was charitable enough to forget that she gets winded walking up stairs.

By the time she crossed the finish line, Aunt Sarah had come to the decision that all future charitable acts should be in the form of philanthropic checks and volunteer work. She was chugging from a water bottle that a volunteer handed her, trying to retain some dignity and _not_ collapse where she stood, when a leggy blond strode over.

“That was great, don’t you think?” Sarah didn’t immediately recognize the woman’s words as the same ones that trailed up her inner thigh, but the second it clicked, she knew one thing: _her soulmate was out of her goddamn mind_.

But then she got a good look at the woman that fate (or science, or whatever the popular theory was then) saw fit to pair her up with. (“She was glistening with sweat, but hardly even winded; I was heaving like a woman in labor. I hated her for a minute, but then she smiled and I was done for.”)

Aunt Sarah has no brain/mouth filter. Her soulmate’s words are a testament to this.

“I had no idea I was bisexual.”

And that’s the story of how Aunt June got intimately acquainted with Aunt Sarah’s soulmark in her Toyota just off the running trail. (“June had enough stamina for the both of us, thank God.”)

So really, you don’t feel so bad that your first kiss with your soulmate is in the back of an unmarked cargo truck. This kind of thing runs in the family.

Ahkmenrah—and you hope he has a nickname because _damn,_ that’s a mouthful to call out in the heat of the moment—leans in and you’re pretty sure you whisper your name in some kind of incomprehensible introduction. It definitely doesn’t compare to his “fourth king of the fourth king” title. (Whatever that means.)

One hand tilts your face up slightly, and your eyelids drop to half-mast, not quite willing to miss this moment. His lips are warm, barely there, as they sweep across your own. You inhale sharply at the contact. His fingers on your knee have stilled, and you are hyperaware of his thumb pressing into your inner thigh, just above the joint. His lips are brushing over the corner of your mouth, your cheek, _teasing_.

“ _Show me your words._ ” His breath is warm against your ear. You shiver.

“I—uh—” You’re too focused on the thumb sliding mere centimeters up your thigh to be embarrassed at your lack of articulation. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

His mouth is back on yours, peppering you with little nipping kisses. And _wow_ , okay, teeth. You could be on board with where this is going.

“Show—me—” he punctuates each word with a press of lips. “— _please_.”

Well. He did say “please.” (You are in for so much trouble, you can already tell. This man and his mouth are _dangerous_.)

“Okay, just scoot—” He doesn’t seem inclined to move away, but you really need some space to untuck your work shirt from your pants. You press your bound hands a little harder into his chest piece, where they’d drifted at some point. He shifts incrementally, his knees falling on either side of your right leg. Then his mouth is on your neck, worrying the skin at the juncture, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to have an impressive hickey to explain tomorrow along with your bruises. The heat of his lips—and his tongue, _Jesus_ —burns away coherent thought. Your head is thrown back, grinding into the metal wall of the truck, and you can hear your own gasping and the drum of your heart over the sound of the engine.

“I can’t get to it like this.” _And if you want to verify them, or whatever, stop distracting me_.

“Shall I help?” His breath blows across the wet spot on your neck and you can’t help the near seizure of pleasure that works its way up your whole body. His words are innocent, but the _tone_ …

 _My soulmate is an incubus. That is the only explanation_.

“Just, uh, help with my shirt.”

You have a tiny bit of space to ruck it up now, and he seems to like that idea because his hands are gently moving your useless ones aside— _damn zip ties_ —and warm palms are sliding up your waist. _How are my ribs an erogenous zone? Is that a thing?_

He pulls back, and you make a little noise of displeasure. _Come back and do that thing again_. You’re not sure what thing in particular. _All the things_ , your libido answers.

“Are they here?” he asks, clever fingers tracing over your stomach.

“Ngh—not, uh, not quite.” Your hands move to your waistband.

You make the mistake of meeting Ahkmenrah’s eyes as you shimmy your pants down over just your left hip. They’re black. His pupils are blown wide, leaving only a sliver of color. _He looks like he’s going to devour me_.

_…I would not be opposed._

“Right here.” His eyes break away from yours, and you can breathe again.

Scrawled across your lower abdomen in very precise script are the words _I’ve been rather worried about the situation that requires those words._ They cluster near the cradle of your left hip, and you struggle to keep yourself decent while revealing them.

You nearly come out of your skin when Ahkmenrah traces a finger over the letters.

“When we get out of this… _situation_ ,” he sounds more annoyed than anything by your current predicament of, you know, _being kidnapped_. “Situation” indeed. “I would like to examine these—” His thumb presses under your hipbone. You twitch violently because _that is a sensitive spot, mister, and you are not playing fair_. “—closer. With your permission, of course.”

His eyes are wide and sincere, but his mouth is red from kissing, and his hand is still on your partially unclothed hip. His innocence is suspect. (i.e. _It’s a lie. The cake is a lie. The innocent look is a lie because I see that unholy gleam in his… if I end that with ‘eye’ it’s going to sound like a bad poem._ )

“…This is all going kinda fast—not that I’m complaining!—but shouldn’t we, you know, be working on an escape plan…?”

He looks uncertain for the first time.

“I apologize if I’ve been too… forward. Where I’m from, it is— _was_ —encouraged to reunite the souls upon finding your missing half. It didn’t occur to me that that may no longer be standard practice.” He’s taken his hands off of you and sits back a bit.

 _Reunite the…? Oh._ Oh.

You’d learned about various cultures mythologies’ regarding the creation and reunification of soulmates in school. Lots of places still adhere to them. You wonder to which he’s referring.

“Yeah, no, that’s still pretty much… standard practice.” Your voice has jumped up a few pitches. “I just… maybe there should be some conversation first? I’m completely in the dark about what’s going on here, other than those guys wanting your tablet-thing.” Your skin feels cold now that his hands are clasped in his lap. He’s still basically straddling you though, so there’s that.

“Of course. I’m sorry for getting carried away; that was remiss of me.” A little look of disparagement twists his mouth, and his eyes stare past you for a moment.

“I did say that I wasn’t complaining.” You don’t like the look in his eyes; it makes him seem ageless and remote. “I would let you know if I wasn’t completely okay with… everything.” And certain parts of you are protesting that “everything” should be happening _right now_.

His mouth tilts up, but there’s still a distance there, like a wall of glass between you.

“You’re correct, though. I should have restrained myself until this situation was dealt with.” He draws further away, sitting next to you. You kind of want to stuff your words back into your mouth because that is not what you wanted to happen, dammit. You just want a few answers, _come back_. “I will answer what I can in the time given to us.”

 _He speaks like a Lord of the Rings character. I dig it_.

It suddenly occurs to you that your pants are still halfway down your hips, and you adjust them, blushing furiously.

“Well, first off, I showed you mine; where’s _your_ mark?” A little voice in your brain hopes that it involves the removal of clothes. _Fair’s fair_.

“Ah, yes.” He draws his cloak-thing (and he’d dodged the question before, but you are dying to know about the outfit) aside and lifts the chest piece. Written just under his left pectoral—yum—and trailing over his ribs are your memorable first words _Is it still considered kidnapping if we’re adults?_ You want to preen a little; it feels like a claim of ownership. “This one is mine,” it basically says in your handwriting. It makes you feel more than a little possessive, and you can understand his visceral reaction upon seeing yours.

 _I want to lick it_ , you think. (You don’t, though. You’re not a barbarian.)

…Although it’s not off the table for later.

“I can imagine how alarming those words would be. I was pretty concerned about mine, too.” Your mom had also been pretty worried about what shenanigans you were going to get into in order to meet “the One.”

“Actually, I found it rather exciting.” His smile has no trace of self-flagellation now. It’s boyishly wide-eyed.

 _Is it just a side effect of being soulmates that I find him ridiculously attractive and charming?_ You stare at his cheekbones. _Nah_.

“…I should be more concerned about that than I am. You’re not in the mob, are you?” _The Egyptian mob, costume non-optional?_

He laughs.

“No, I have no ties to any crime syndicate. You could say that I work for the museum.”

_Oh, right. He did mention the AMNH. That would explain the clothes, but not the—_

“You said you are ‘the fourth king of the fourth king.’ Care to elaborate?”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” He looks chagrinned.

“That’s not your World of Warcraft title, or something, is it?” Not that you’d judge if it were. (Too harshly.)

“World of War—? Ah, no. It’s a bit more complicated than tha—” He’s interrupted as the truck comes to a stop around you. You slide into him a bit with the loss of momentum. He braces you before standing and offering a hand. You awkwardly hold your bound hands up.

“I don’t suppose you could work your magic on these, too?”

“I’m afraid I would hurt you if I tried to break them the same way.” Figures. “Though the moment I dispatch these men, I will free you.” He sounds pretty confident about his ability to do so.

When you get out of this, you are taking self-defense classes. And buying pepper spray.

The door swings open.

“Okay. Waitress, out. Pharaoh, you just stay put.” You’re not sure which thug this is, but you think it might be your old pal, Gary.

“I’m afraid I may have misled you.” You’re very glad you’re not the one facing down Ahkmenrah. He sounds cordial, but he’s shifted into a stance that spells trouble. “I have no intention letting you get any farther in your scheme.”

And then he strikes.

You’re having flashbacks to your favorite action movies as Ahkmenrah uses the added height of the truck to bury his sandaled foot in the guy’s face. _Woah. Critical hit_. The thug makes a pained sound—he probably has broken teeth and/or a broken nose, poor bastard—and topples out of view. You scramble to the door as Ahkmenrah follows.

There’s the sound of flesh on flesh, and you peek out in time to see Ahkmenrah using the groaning thug as a meat shield, one arm around his neck, the other tugging something from the guy’s belt. There’s a clicking noise.

“Let him go.” Thug number two is leveling a gun— _sweet Jesus_ —at the two. The clicking noise must have been the bullet entering the chamber. You can feel all of your levity vanish as the severity of the situation sinks in. _These guys mean business_.

But Ahkmenrah means business, too.

He’s gotten whatever he wanted from his captive’s belt, and is pointing it at the other man. It’s another gun.

 _Oh god_.

“Give me the tablet and you and your associate will greet the sunrise in one piece.” He seems so much smaller than the other two men, lithe where they are stocky, wearing absurdly outlandish clothes next to their all-black ensembles, but his strength is evident by his hold on the first man and the steel in his voice. _Museum employee, my ass_.

“The safety is still on, dumbass.”

Ahkmenrah looks confused for a moment, eyes flicking down to his weapon. His mouth flattens.

“I find these to be very distasteful.” And then he chucks it at the dude’s head.

 _That… is not how you use a gun_.

But it hits its target with a painful-sounding _thwack_.

You aren’t expecting the gunshot. Neither, it seems, is Ahkmenrah. You are too shocked to scream as your soulmate staggers back, eyes wide.

 _No no no no, please no_.

But you don’t see any blood blossoming as Ahkmenrah recovers, shoving the thug in his grasp forward, and lunges at the man whose gun had discharged. The man isn’t expecting the attack, probably still recovering from a gun to the face, and Ahkmenrah uses his distraction to disarm him.

And then he pistol-whips him with his own weapon.

You’re still peeking halfway out of the truck, speechless, when Ahkmenrah turns, two crumpled would-be kidnappers at his feet, and says, “I promised you reparation for your harsh treatment, but I think we should let your law enforcement take it from here.”

You can feel your jaw hanging slack.

“Who _are_ you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So originally my Omegaverse story and this one were the same, and it kinda shows in Ahk’s alpha-ness. Whoops. Sorry, not sorry. (He likes American action films, but he thinks guns lack honor. He’s okay with using them like a blunt instrument, though.)


	3. Chapter 3

Ahkmenrah looks a bit sheepish.

“I am all that I said before. There is, however, more to me than I may have led you to believe.” If his bearing was any less regal, he’d be scuffing his sandal on the ground. Even so, he looks tempted to fidget. “I suggest we remove ourselves from this situation before the police arrive. I will explain my… circumstances… then.”

You wonder why he is so eager to avoid the police. There is a cold pit in your stomach at the various possibilities.

Your soulmate is disregarding your rapidly paling face for the time being, rummaging through the unconscious guards’ pockets. He finds what he’s looking for, and with a little flip and a flourish he brandishes a switchblade at you.

In any other situation you’d be impressed.

As it is, you feel a bit faint.

“Wha—?” You can feel your IQ dropping as your vision narrows down to the glint of the knife. You’re not sure this evening—morning, really—can get any more surreal.

“Your wrists look rather worse for wear. We should take care of those ties befo—are you well?”

Your lower lip feels strangely trembly. Your head feels like it’s floating a few feet above your body, untethered and liable to blow away. You sniff.

Ahkmenrah looks horrified.

“You thought—? Oh, dear heart.” He closes the blade and tucks it away, and with two strides he eats up the distance between you. Warm fingers tuck escaping strands of hair behind your ears. “You must know that I will never harm you.”

You want to laugh the whole thing off— _haha, I totally deal with kidnapping and assault all the time, no biggie_ —but you’re starting to realize that you’ve come to the end of your tether for the night. You’re overtired and overwrought, and you just want take a scalding shower and sleep for a week.

And maybe cuddle a little. You’re never averse to cuddling.

“Yes.” Your voice, when you find it, is tiny.

His hands are warm and dry (did he literally not break a sweat during that altercation? Your own palms are clammy and unpleasant) when he cups them around your face.

“As long as it is in my power, no harm will come to you.” His eyes are serious, boring into your embarrassingly wet ones. Native New Yorkers will probably cast you out for this emotional display. Kidnapping is probably old hat for them. A rite of passage or something.

You are still staring soulfully into each other’s eyes—or, he’s staring soulfully, and you’re trying to even out your breathing and beat back a flood of tears—when the constant soundtrack of sirens (a couple years of living in the city has inured you to it) becomes less of a background noise and more of a foreground noise. Ahkmenrah stiffens.

“We’ve lingered too long.”

Your wrists are free before you register him reaching for the switchblade. He doesn’t even knick your skin.

Ahkmenrah strides to the front of the truck, towing you in his wake, and reaches into the open passenger side. He hands you your purse and you gratefully sling it over your shoulder. You’d forgotten that they’d taken it. You’d also forgotten about his tablet, but he’s kept his head during all of this and seems to be going through a mental checklist. Rescue soulmate? Check. Comfort said soulmate when she begins to lose her shit? Check. Retrieve priceless artifact? Double check. Run from approaching police sirens by ducking into shady alleys? Mission in progress.

Generally you avoid said shady-looking alleys, but you feel pretty confident about your chances due to the man holding your hand. You pity the fool who tries to get the jump on Ahkmenrah. He’s only armed with a flashy chunk of gold (he’d tossed the knife away as soon as you were free), but you’ve never felt safer.

Now if only you can ignore this stitch in your side, things will be golden.

You almost trip over your own feet in amusement because _haha, golden like the tablet—that isn’t even funny, am I going into hysterics?_ Ahkmenrah braces you absently.

 _“We should—get a—taxi.”_ You try and fail not to sound like a winded buffalo.

“I’m afraid I have no form of payment.” And of course he sounds as unruffled as ever.

_“—have—cash.”_

This, thankfully, prompts him to stop. You brace a hand against the nearest wall and pant. You’re not sure where, exactly, the two of you have ended up. Or where you started out. One of the thugs had mentioned something about dropping you off in Jersey, but you had been too… distracted… to hear whether or not the truck had gone over a bridge.

 _God, I hope we’re not in Jersey_.

“I believe we’ve traveled out of the city.” _Dammit_. “The fare is likely to be… exorbitant.”

You pull a wad of tips from your back pocket. The amount of bills looks impressive, but given that it is almost entirely in ones…

“We’ll have to take a bus.”

 

Ahkmenrah acts as though he’s never used public transportation before. You wish you could say the same for yourself, but the stale sweat and cigarette smell of the seats just makes you ill. Ahkmenrah herds you into an empty spot, claiming the aisle seat and clutching his tablet as though the shabby-looking gentleman the aisle over will try to pry it from him. Which, fair enough, he might. It’s pretty… _gold_.

You hope your soulmate isn’t hoping for much in the way of stimulating conversation on the ride back. You slump bonelessly next to him, head thumping against the smudged window. It’s quiet for a minute, and you drift on the edge of consciousness. The second the bus shifts into drive, however, your teeth are nearly rattled out of your head, and you jerk away from the glass. A warm arm drapes over your shoulders and you’re tugged inexorably towards an equally warm and considerably more comfortable chest.

“Sleep. I will prevent any and all kidnapping attempts.”

“You never answered the question,” you murmur.

“To which do you refer?”

 _So evasive_. 

“ _Is_ it still kidnapping if we’re adults?”

He lets out a surprised snort. It is endearingly un-regal.

“I believe that is still the commonly accepted term. Regardless, you are in no danger.”

“S’that a fact?”

“It’s a promise.”

You drift off to his thumb rubbing circles on your shoulder.

 

It’s sometime after four in the morning when you stumble up your apartment steps. Ahkmenrah is still bright-eyed and alert, one hand on your elbow as you dig for your keys. You’re really glad he remembered to grab your purse because heaven knows no one’s going to buzz you in at this ungodly hour.

“I have a couple roommates, but I’m sure they’re asleep. I can make us coffee?” Yes, coffee. Coffee is good. Sleep would be better, but first you want answers.

“I’m amenable.” He holds the door when you finally manage to get it open. His manners are charmingly… old-school. His mother must be proud.

You direct him toward the stairwell because as exhausted as you may be, you’re not about to risk the elevator. That thing is a deathtrap. The whole of your apartment building is… modest, to say the least.

Okay, it’s a dump. You’re a poor college student and your roommates are in the same sinking boat with only school loans to keep them afloat. You’ve all resigned yourselves to drowning.

Ahkmenrah glances around with interest despite the obvious water stains and general state of disrepair. Or, more likely, his curiosity is due to these. He has the bearing of someone who is used to a certain level of decorum and wealth. You try not to be too embarrassed.

“It’s kind of a shithole.” And there you go, with all the eloquence of a well-bred lady. You hunch your shoulders as you lead the way up the stairs.

“It has a certain… lived-in charm.” He sounds amused.

“Are you a politician, by any chance? Because that was very diplomatic.” You’re joking, of course, but you glance behind you just in time to see a strange look pass over his features. “Wait, you’re not, are you?”

“Not as such, no.”

“You sure skirt around straight answers like one.” You wince at your tone. “Sorry, that was harsh.”

“No apology needed. I am aware that I’ve been… less than forthcoming about myself.” He catches up to you as you stop on your landing and opens the door as you reach for it. “However, I have every intention of answering any and all of your questions in the relative privacy of your home. I just ask that you let me explain in full before… deciding on a course of action.” He looks worried, which makes you worried.

“That bad, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘bad,’ per say, simply strange.”

So yes, definitely that bad.

You square your shoulders.

“Honestly, after tonight I’m prepared for just about anything.”

 

As it turns out, you are not prepared for the people in your apartment.

“ _Dios_ , you’re okay.” You’re nearly bowled over as soon as you unlock the door by a pintsized Marisol. Ahkmenrah braces you from behind as your fellow waitress cups your face and looks over you for injuries. She’s not happy with what she finds.

 “Those _bastardos_! I knew they were no good the moment I saw them. I saw you get taken—esos hijos de puta grabbed you in front of the windows—but they were gone before I could kick their sorry asses.”

Behind her, you can see your roommates, tired but alert, and Marisol’s two soulmates. Marcus, Marisol’s most recent soulmate, gives you a little wave from the couch.

“The police called half an hour ago. They found a truck and two suspects matching Marisol’s description, but no sign of you,” Marcus says. “Marisol’s been beside herself. Hell, we all have. What happened?”

“Are you okay?” Jessica, one of your roommates, asks.

“Who’s he?” Ricardo, Marisol’s other soulmate, is glaring at Ahkmenrah.

“Dios, give the girl some space! Look at her, she’s all roughed up. Move, move!” Marisol shoos Marcus to one end of the couch and ushers you onto it. You wince, bruised tailbone protesting the change in position. Ahkmenrah hovers over you, obviously unsure whether to sit or stand or flee. Marisol solves his dilemma by shoving him down next to you.

Jessica brings over a cup of coffee— _sweet, blessed nectar of the gods_ —and eyes Ahkmenrah. In fact, every eye in the room is flicking between the two of you, unsure whether to focus on your sorry state or his… strange one. That costume has _got_ to go.

“You, uh. You want a cup?” Jessica asks. She’s looking at his gold chest piece. You want to say, “His eyes are up here,” but that’s ridiculous. She’s not checking him out, and he’s not exactly a damsel in distress. That would be you.

“No, thank you.” He’s very subdued under the gaze of your (admittedly very judgmental) friends.

“Now,” Marisol says, “What happened?”

You take a bracing gulp of the steaming coffee. _Mmm, hazelnut_.

“Well, I’m not sure what their motives were, exactly, but they grabbed me for… insurance? They weren’t very forthcoming and then they were unconscious. I think they knew that I overheard them plotting in the diner—not that I heard anything worthwhile—and figured I was as good a hostage as any. Although why they needed one in the first place, I never found out. Basically their plan was a hot mess.”

“There were just the two men? The two you served?” Marisol asks.

“Mhm. They were after this—” Here, you point at the tablet. Ahkmenrah’s grip tightens under everyone’s speculative stare. “—and that’s how Ahkmenrah got involved. He works for the AMNH.”

Sort of. You think.

This would all be so much easier if they had waited to ambush you until _after_ Ahkmenrah explained… whatever it is that needs explaining. His situation. His sordid past. Whatever.

“So they tried to pull a _National Treasure_?” Jessica is perched in a chair across from you. Your other roommate looks like she’s nodding off at the kitchen table. You envy her.

“Basically. Ahkmenrah laid ‘em out, though.” More stares. “Just to clarify, he’s my soulmate.”

 _That_ gets a reaction. _Hoo, boy_.

“He’s your _what?_ ”

“Both of you got kidnapped on the same night?”

“Is he into some kind of weird role-play shit?” There’s a slap after that one. Ricardo rubs his shoulder and glares balefully at Marisol. “Was a valid question,” he mutters.

“He’s my soulmate. And yes, obviously. Kismet is sort of a huge part of this whole soulmate thing, you know. And we haven’t discussed kinks yet, Ricardo.” You answer rapid-fire, your patience at the end of its tether.

Ahkmenrah looks vaguely horrified at the direction this conversation has taken. He sinks about two inches lower in the cushions.

“Look, I, for one, am exhausted. I appreciate you guys’ concern, but I’m about two minutes away from total system failure. Can we reconvene later?” You chug the last of your coffee.

“I’ll call the police and let them know you’re safe.” Marcus is standing up, his hand on Marisol’s back in an effort to herd her to the door. Marisol is unconvinced.

“You’re sure you’re okay? You don’t need a doctor?”

“She’s fine, Mar. Strong girl like her? She’s probably the reason one of those guy’s has a fractured jaw.” Ricardo winks at you.

At the words “fractured jaw” you have a flashback to Ahkmenrah’s foot burying itself in possibly-Gary’s face. You smirk. Your soulmate can kick some ass.

“Yes, yes. But tomorrow, chica, we’re having a _talk_.” She looks significantly between you and Ahkmenrah. “And put some ice on that face!”

Marisol’s soulmates finally manage to shove her out of the door. Marcus shoots a parting, “Go to the police station tomorrow!” and then it’s you, Ahkmenrah, Jessica, and soft snoring from the kitchen table.

“I’ll put that one to bed. Nice to meet you… I’m sorry, what’s your name?” Jessica is hovering over your sleeping roommate, balancing politeness with a desire to get back to bed herself.

“I am Ahkmenrah. I’m sorry to have met you under such… inauspicious circumstances.”

  
“Well, the way it sounds we’re all lucky that you were there tonight. So thanks.” She nods at him and when he glances at you with a soft smile, she gives you a discreet thumbs up. At least someone approves.

“Onward, then,” you say, taking his free hand and pulling him towards your closet.

Room. You mean room.

You both pile in and you immediately toe off your work shoes. Ahkmenrah closes the door behind you. You think you hear the lock click.

“Sorry for the mess. And the close quarters.” You don’t see any bras lying around, so there’s that, at least.

“This is hardly “close quarters,” and you needn’t keep apologizing. You have yet to show me anything that would make me think less of you.” He sets his tablet on the dresser. The lights shining through the half-open window blinds cut across his face like a character in a noir film.

It strikes you suddenly that you are alone with him. In a bedroom. With a bed. As would be expected of a bedroom.

“Do you mind if I grab a quick shower? I’m sure I still smell like diner food.” _Way to set the mood, self_.

Ahkmenrah glances out of the window as if gaging the time. As if you can do that in the city.

“Of course. I have time.”

In the bathroom, you take the quickest, hottest shower of your life. You even manage to shave. Because of reasons. Reasons that have nothing to do with your soulmate standing in your bedroom. Or possibly sitting. On your bed.

You rush through brushing your teeth.

You reenter your bedroom considerably more awake than when you left it. You also smell like floral shampoo instead of fried food, which is a huge plus.

Ahkmenrah is, indeed, sitting on your bed. He has a book in his hands.

“Is that my high school yearbook?” Please, god, no.

“Your friends’ comments are very… colorful.” He’s looking at the front pages, where your friends had signed it. And written some vulgar poetry. Among other things.

“Not really the impression I wanted to give on our first day. High school was a dark time.” You try to tug it out of his hands.

“Someone was a very talented artist.” He’s pointing to… oh, god, they’re little drawings of dicks. You’d forgotten. You’d repressed the memories.

“Are you still standing by that comment about not thinking less of me?”

He uses your grip on the book to tug you forward. He tips his head up and kisses your chin, the closest part to him.

“You’re right. After this, I have changed my mind about you. That you kept such company is unforgivable—” You cover his smirking mouth with your own, finally wresting the book from his hands and tossing it somewhere behind you. You hope the binding breaks.

You’ve never moved this fast in a relationship before, never kissed on the first date—or God forbid the night you _met_ —but there’s something about this, about him. You suppose it’s the whole meant-to-be thing, the fact that you’re literally written on each other’s skin. There’s a certain kind of hesitance in any relationship that isn’t with “the One.” For most people, dating is like a waiting game, a way to pass the time. Sometimes the game becomes real. People marry outside of soul bonds all the time. You haven’t really thought about it—at least, not since entering college—but you’d always assumed that your relationship with your soulmate would be a bit… rocky. A mark like “ _I’ve been rather worried about the situation that requires those words_ ” will do that to a girl.

And, okay, you _were_ kidnapped. But this, what you have with Ahkmenrah, _this_ isn’t difficult. It’s like coming home after a long day and not realizing how tired you’ve been until your lock slides home and you have a chance to fianlly _breathe_. It’s that knowledge that there’s someone real and present and meant entirely for you (okay, maybe not _entirely_ , but you’re feeling a little selfish) and you can just reach out and touch him.

Or, you know, kiss him. Situations may vary.

You’d noticed in the truck, but now, in the stillness of your bedroom, it’s very apparent how skilled Ahkmenrah is. There’s no rattling vehicle to distract you from the slide of skin on skin as he explores your mouth like it’s his sole mission in life. He’s bracing your wrists in his hands, his thumbs chasing chill bumps on your forearms. He tastes warm—that’s as best as you can describe it. He’s just warm skin with hints of your toothpaste and a tiny bit of leftover hazelnut from your coffee.

You’re not sure you’re going to be able to drink that creamer without getting hot under the collar after this. (That isn’t a complaint.)

Ahkmenrah shifts you in his grasp and eases back a bit to let you onto the bed. You kneel slightly, one knee on the bed while you attempt to reorient. He turns to lean against the headboard, hand out in invitation. You take them and he guides you up to straddle him, one hand braced near his head, the other interlaced with his own. There’s a breathless moment before you settle your weight, and then your hips meet and you drop your head onto his shoulder.

“ _Ah_ -Ahkmenrah.” You rock a little.

He’s gentle with your bruised face, tilting your head up to pepper kisses along your jaw. You move to reclaim his lips, but he ducks to lay a kiss against your fluttering pulse, his teeth grazing down your neck gently. Your fingers by his head spasm and you shift more of your weight to your knees and hips so you’re free to move that hand. This has the pleasant side effect of making Ahkmenrah groan against your pulse point. You tug at his curls.

“You’re such a tease, I swear to Go—”

He responds by tipping you back into your pillows, following you with a muttered oath. He kisses you with purpose, as if he could take you apart with his mouth. You’re not sure how far this is going to go, but he has one hand under your knee, hitching it up on his hip, and that angle brings with it the most delicious friction. You cant your hips and he responds with a hoarse sound that might be your name. He nips your lip a little too hard when you scrape your nails along the nape of his neck, and soothes it in silent apology.

Time seems fluid—one kiss turns into two turns into ten—and you never get more clothes off than his chest piece. You’re smoothing your fingers over your words when he stiffens, looking toward the window in silent alarm.

“No—the dawn—I mustn’t be here when the sun crests the horizon.” His voice is panicked, but you’re far too languid to match his manic energy.

“Your carriage gonna turn back into a pumpkin?”

“No, I—forgive me. I need to leave.” He’s already off the bed, tablet in hand. You sit up, already missing his weight. A glance out the window reveals a glow rapidly spreading across the small sliver of sky you can see between buildings.

“You’re going to the museum, right?” He nods jerkily. “I hate to say it, but I don’t think you’re gonna beat the sun there.”

He looks despairingly toward the sky. His shoulders sag.

“I was a fool.” He covers his face with a hand. “I shouldn’t have… and now it is all for naught. Forgive me.”

“You’re scaring me.” He’d faced down two armed men and hadn’t broken a sweat, but a little sun and it’s as if the world is ending.

“I need a favor of you.” He kneels before you, setting the tablet beside him and taking your hands in his.

“Anything.” _Need a kidney? I’ve got two_.

“I need a place… a closet will do. You need to close it and leave it undisturbed until nightfall. Do not open it for any reason.”

“Wait… close it? With you inside?” You give him a _have you completely lost it?_ look.

“Yes. It is of utmost importance.” His eyes are deadly serious.

“…Do you have a sun phobia?”

He doesn’t even crack a smile. Not that you were joking, but you can’t imagine what his reasoning could be for this… insanity.

“Please don’t ask me anymore. There is no time, and I fear—“ He breaks off, pressing your hands to his forehead.

“Hey, hey, okay. Whatever you need.” You gently disengage and open your closet door.

 _Oh, there’s the rest of the mess_.

“ _Thank you_.” He doesn’t even seem to notice the strewn clothes, stepping into the tiny space and sitting cross legged on the floor.

You stare at him.

“You sure about this? You can crash on my bed, or—“

“I would not ask this if the situation were not so dire.” He looks miserable.

“Right. Well. I’ll just…” You motion vaguely. “…Goodnight?”

A corner of his mouth quirks up the tiniest fraction of a centimeter.

“I could not have asked for a better soulmate.”

“Well, you probably could’ve asked for one with a bigger closet, but here we are.” You close the door.

Silence reigns for a couple minutes while you wait for him to reemerge, ending this bizarre prank. He doesn’t. As the room lightens, you begin to consider that he wasn’t joking. He really intends to stay in the closet all day.

“Hey, uh, I forgot to get some clothes out.” You knock on the door, feeling absurd. “Do you mind?”

 He doesn’t answer.

“I just need to grab a shirt. Two seconds.” You grip the handle, ready to nab the closest garment to the door. You crack the door, peer inside, and—

You scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m not dead. Surprise!  
> Thanks for all of the reviews and support. I really, truly appreciate it. I’ve had a lot of changes in my life since my last update, though I’ve never for a moment forgotten about this story or the others. Here’s to hoping that as this semester winds to a close I’ll get some time to crank out some chapters.


	4. Chapter 4

You had a friend in high school who was really into those awful drugstore romances, the ones with rugged, shirtless men on the cover, and taglines like “ _Her soulmate had a dark secret._ ” Inevitably, the “dark secret” was that the protagonist’s soulmate was incredibly wealthy, but his parents were kind of assholes. Sometimes there was lycanthropy involved. Not that you’d know anything about this firsthand, because _clearly_ you’d never stoop to read such filth.

Anyway.

You think you wouldn’t mind a werewolf soulmate. You like dogs. And as for a rich yet disapproving family… well, you can deal with some skeletons in the closet.

…

Oh, fucking _hell_.

The ringing in your ears nearly drowns out the click of a door opening. You focus on the slants of light coming through the office’s window blinds. Footsteps approach to your left.

“Are we on speaking terms yet?”

You let your silence answer.

There’s the sound of a heavy chair dragging over carpet. You don’t look up. Pressed trouser legs enter your view as weight settles into the chair now opposite you. The legs cross, ankle over knee, and you study the argyle socks and brown leather loafers with a critical eye. The man continues, undeterred.

“I won’t try for that “we got off on the wrong foot” nonsense, but you should know that I never intended for you—or anyone else—to get involved with this.” A sigh. “This is what comes of hiring thugs, I suppose.”

If you weren’t under a self-imposed vow of silence, you might laugh.

Actually, no, wait, you’re laughing.

“Ah, I didn’t expect amusement to be your first reaction. I won’t complain; smiling makes you look less tragic.”

Oh, _fuck_ this guy. You weren’t even laughing at him. You’re still hung up on “skeletons in the closet.”

Your shoulders are still shaking—are you crying or laughing? You’d touch your cheeks to check, but your hands are tied. Literally.

Again.

You’ve been through hell today—you’re pretty sure you’re still there, actually, dragging yourself back to the surface by your nails—and though you haven’t _exactly_ come out singing, you think you’re doing okay. For a certain value of “okay.” You look like you belong in a battered women’s shelter and you’re going into hysterics, but you haven’t lost your sense of humor. Such as it is.

“I’d offer you a tissue, but I was warned to keep well clear of your mouth.” Grandpa Clothes sounds amused. “Yates suggested a muzzle.”

And, god, doesn’t the name “Yates” just slot in neatly with the setting. You’re not sure if Yates is the bald white guy you sassed loudly—and explicitly—on the way in, or the bald white guy that you probably sent to the emergency room with a spectacular impression of your pearly whites. You think your bark is probably about as bad (or at least as annoying) as your bite, so it could be either.

You look up, finally, because the silence ship has sailed, and this smug bastard isn’t going to get the satisfaction of hearing his own smarmy words echo back to him in a silent room.

 _Monologue this, bitch_.

 “Oh, _fuck_ you, dude! I go from a clean kidnapping record to being abducted _twice_ in a twenty-four hour period, and you’re sitting there in fucking _loafers_ lamenting my _involvement_?” If your hands weren’t tied to carved mahogany or whatever-the-fuck these chair arms are made out of, you’d have some choice gestures. “I wasn’t _involved_ before your goon squad tossed me into a truck and bounced me through half of the goddamn city. I was on my way home! I was going to count my tips! I was going to get some god-forsaken _sleep_!”

Christ on a six speed bike, you’re tired. Like, bone-weary, craving-a-swift-death tired. Tired enough to consider crawling into someone else’s closet and taking a little (long. eternal.) siesta.

Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck._

 _How_ does this keep happening?

-

It happens like this.

-

When Marisol said that you’d talk later she probably didn’t mean for you to call at six in the morning, babbling and semi-hysterical, but she rolls with the punches in true New Yorker fashion.

“Breathe, honey. Shhh.” Any sleep-cloudiness is gone from her voice now. “What happened?”

There’s a muffled voice on the other line. You hear Marisol mutter something—you think you hear your name in the jumble—and she makes a shushing sound. You’d apologize for interrupting your friend and her soulmates _again_ , but all you can do is make little aborted gasps into the phone.

Are you dying? There’s a light somewhere ahead. Although, at second glance, it’s probably a flashing billboard. You should probably sit down.

“Are you at home? Can we come get you?”

“N-no. Stepped out,” you wheeze. “Soulmates… fucking… _suck._ ”

You can’t feel your limbs. Are you going into shock? What, exactly, does shock feel like? Like your world is ending and also kind of like that time you ate two week old pizza from the back of the fridge? It does feel like the phantom of that supreme meats special is about to make a surprise reappearance on the sidewalk outside of your building. You swallow shallowly a few times and sink onto the building steps.

“What did that boy do.” Marisol’s voice is flat, not even rising in inflection.

 _Well, you see, first he seduced me in the back of a delivery truck, and then he totally annihilated some guys who had it out for us, and_ then _he had the_ audacity _to stop at second base when we were making out._

_Oh, and then he up and died in my closet._

An early school bus stops at the end of the street. You forgot that today is a school day. Looks like your nine o’clock class is a bust. And, if you’re being honest, the whole day is going to be a bust. You are exhausted down to your very marrow—and _fuck_ , doesn’t that just make you think of bones, which makes you think of—

Ahkmenrah.

He was so evasive, but there was going to be time to talk, he said, time for answers—

Well, you have a lot of fucking questions, and it didn’t look like he’d be answering any of them when you fled the apartment a little while ago.

“Are you still there?” Marisol prods you back into the present.

“Yeah,” you say vaguely.

You don’t have any shoes on, you realize. You’re huddled on the bottom step of your apartment building, pressed against a brick ledge, at—what time is it? six? ish?—in the morning, and you’re barefoot.

“My shoes are in the closet.”

“…Are you talking to me?” Marisol asks. There’s a shuffling sound like she’s getting out of bed.

You’re about to say something stupid, something like, “my dead soulmate is on top of my sneakers,” but a shadow falls across your hunched form, and your already tenuous train of thought is interrupted.

“Good morning.”

There’s a police officer in front of you. Your tongue pushes the words “I HAVE A DEAD MAN IN MY CLOSET” to the back of your mouth. Your phone is still against your ear.

“M-morning,” you say. Casually. With the air of someone who has never seen a shriveled corpse ( _oh god, oh god_ ), much less harbors one in her bedroom amongst her scattered bras and t-shirts.  

“Hello?” Oh, right. Marisol. “You’re scaring me.”

“I’ll call you back.” You hit ‘end call’ against her protests.

The officer isn’t in the standard uniform. It looks like he’s half in street clothes, badge on his belt, side holster peeking out from his windbreaker. He’s big enough that you’d be nervous being approached by him on any given day, but this morning it’s almost too much. You regret your decision to hang up on Marisol. You’d spring for any excuse not to engage with the police on this particular morning.

“How’s the other guy?” the officer asks, like you weren’t already heading towards cardiac arrest by his greeting. He leans against your ledge, further throwing you into shadow.

You blanch.

“What other guy? There is no other guy. Just me.” You’re a natural at this evasion thing. “Smooth Criminal” plays when you walk into rooms.

The officer raises an eyebrow, staring pointedly at the lower left half of your face.                                          

 _Oh, right_. He was commenting on your impressive array of bruises, not questioning you for murder.

“Oh, you mean—yeah, _haha_ , funny story. He has a broken jaw.”

The officer’s attention snaps from the car about to illegally park beside your building and focuses back on your face. You hold up your hands.

“It was self-defense.”

The car slides in next to a fire hydrant. The officer pays it no mind.

“Well that sounds familiar. I’m here following up on a kidnapping charge. Of the two men being charged, one of them has a fractured jaw.” He reaches into his jacket. “You were abducted outside of your workplace earlier this morning, correct?”

“Uh. Yeah.” That’s a bold fucking SUV. You hope the driver gets a fat ticket. You can’t see a face through the tinted windows, but you bet it’s a guy in a polo and boat shoes. “I was gonna come down to the station this morning to file a report.”

“No need, actually,” the officer says. His hand whips out of his windbreaker and you get an eyeful of his sidepiece in the milliseconds before he’s smothering your face with a rag.

Your ears have been ringing for the last quarter of an hour, but now it’s morphed into incoherent internal screaming.

 _Oh, for CHRISSAKES_ , you think. For one wild second you want to laugh. Instead, you try to lunge towards the fake officer, aiming for a head-butt. You collide painfully—probably more so for you, considering prior damage—before he tugs you in more securely. You didn’t know hugs could be evil, but here you are.

You try to pull back from the man’s almost-embrace, but he’s no slouch, and his forearms are corded and immovable. You assume whatever he’s doused the rag with is meant to knock you out—and you do feel lightheaded, because your initial reaction was to inhale sharply like a _complete idiot_ —but this is the city. No way are you going to get kidnapped in _public_ twice in a twelve hour period. Once is a fluke. Twice is a fucking conspiracy.

One of your last fleeting thoughts as Officer Cuddles bundles you into the idling SUV at the curb—and mother _fucker_ , you knew something was off with that asshole—is that the illuminati are real, and you’re going to fight some Nicholas Cage-looking bitch.

_Square up, you meme-faced bastar—_

-

One time, in first grade, you heard a boy say the words “rather worried” in passing, and being the mature six-year-old that you were, you decided that he was your soulmate. You were a pretty good reader, and you knew _generally_ what the words on your hip said. Not many six-year-olds use phrases like “rather worried.”  It seemed like a winning deduction to you.

Clearly, no one had bothered to explain the specifics of soulmate discovery at that point in your life.

Little Eduardo was just as clueless as you, and by the time lunch was over, half the lunchroom had been invited to your impending wedding, and you were pretty sure Abby Dwyer was going to be your maid of honor and possibly Eduardo’s best man, too. (No one had explained the specifics of weddings, either.) The teachers were pretty well-versed in spotting childhood soulmate false alarms, but no one could convince you that Eduardo wasn’t The One, and you held his hand happily for about two hours, at which point Miss Sawyer told you to “please release Eduardo’s hand, he needs to work on his vowel worksheet.”

Miss Sawyer had no sympathy for the new love of six-year-old soulmates and would probably die without finding her _I dig the sexy librarian look_.

 In hindsight, you feel pretty bad for the unfortunate placement of her words, as well as the words themselves. Imagine getting a teaching degree with _that_ trailing over your neck like a bad nineties choker.

Unfortunate soulmarks aside, hearing from your mother—who was, at that point, your human _Encyclopedia Britannica_ —that Eduardo, the love of your life, the stars in your eyes, the square pizza to your Friday lunch, was not, in fact, your soulmate was crushing. It remained your most devastating soulmate-related memory up until this morning, when your _real_ soulmate (who doesn’t have a sweet batman sticker book, but you think you could love him anyway) turned into one of those bizarre tabloid-style mysteries. You can imagine seeing the headline as you wait for the self-checkout: “ _The Talking Dead: Mum(my)’s the word on whether or not local woman made-out with corpse soulmate._ ”

If curses are real—and all signs are pointing to ‘yes’—you should probably see about finding someone to remove yours, because this level of bad luck has got to involve some magical intervention.

 _Yer a wizard, fucker_.

-

Chloroform has a taste, and it’s death. Death and flowers to be more accurate. The chemical sweetness  wraps around the back of your throat like a hand. You can still taste it when you release a juttering breath.

Grandpa Clothes doesn’t seem particularly impressed by you or your rant.

“I can understand your distress, believe you me.”

 _Believe you me_. Ugh, you wish you had a camera to stare into when this guy speaks.

“Clearly,” you say. Your voice is so flat it would give the week-old coke in your backpack a run for its money.

The man ignores your pointed stare.

“Your sarcasm does you no credit.”

You snort. Despite his apparel, Grandpa Clothes is no Grandpa. At most, he could be a DILF—dad you’d like to _fucking defenestrate_ —but he can’t be older than forty, and even that’s pushing it. You’re not sure why he feels the need to adopt the “disappointed dad” tone, but it’s kind of giving you hives.

“Oh, did I miss the part where you’ll let me go for good behavior?” You’re tugging at your tied wrists as though that will do anything but chafe. “I admit, I tuned out some of your initial speech.”

You do kind of feel like a badass, mouthing off to some suited villain while tied to a chair. Of course, instead of a towering kingpin, this guy just looks tired.

Well, you’re exhausted too, and it’s his fucking fault, so he can suck it up.

The man runs a hand through his hair. It’s a dusty brown, like blond that hasn’t seen the sun in a few years. You squint against the sunlight glancing off his cufflinks. His fashion is a personal affront to you on many levels.

“It’s not likely to endear you to me, but I truly have no desire to keep you detained,” he says. Honestly, he speaks so precisely you’re starting to wonder if he’s not a man, but a mildly evil robot. (A truly evil robot wouldn’t be going after such small fish, after all, and you’re pretty much a guppy.)

“You’re right; every time you mention how much you don’t want me here, my blood pressure rises. At this rate, I’ll have a stroke before noon.”

“That would be… regrettable.” He leans forward. It must be nice to have the freedom to change positions. “You see, I think we can help each other.”

“I swear, if you offer me money for my help with something—“

He glances away, clearly uncomfortable.

“—I am going to seriously consider it. I’m very poor.”

His eyes snap back to yours. They’re blue.

“You—“ He barks out what could be a laugh, but it’s a little dusty in the room, so it could be a cough. “I admit, that was not the response I expected.”

“Have you kidnapped many college students?”

“I don’t really kid—“ He sighs. “No.”

“Well then.”

You stare at each other. He, a bit mournfully, and you with a certain level of smugness. You wonder if he can see your left eye beginning to twitch. You really need a nap.

“Do you even know why you’re here?”

“Nah, but I’m hoping you aren’t in dire need of an heir for your fortune 500, because there’s a limit to things I’m willing to do for money.”

Because you’re sure this has _nothing_ to do with your mysterious soulmate and his probably-not-a-curator job, and the chunk of gold that he totes around like a security blanket. Those are just quirks. Funny quirks that you’re all going to laugh about when the camera crew jumps out and declares this episode of Punk’d a success.

The look Grandpa Clothes gives you is disappointed. Then again, you haven’t seen many other expressions _but_ disappointed on this man, so it could just be his default look. Some people have resting bitch faces, GC wants the world to know that he expected better of it.

“You may not have all the pieces, but I know you’ve at least glimpsed some of the bigger picture here. You seem very quick witted,” he says. “Try again.”

You’re really flying blind here, and you have no idea how much this guy knows, what his “bigger picture” is, or how much you can reveal. Does he know Ahkmenrah is your soulmate? Does he know he’s… well. He probably doesn’t know Ahkmenrah is in your closet. That seems like a pretty safe assumption.

Unless he’s behind Ahkmenrah’s… _circumstances_?

Your head hurts. If you think any more about closets you’re going to cry again. Also you have to pee.

GC seems to take your silence as a deliberate one instead of the dazed stupor of a sleep deprived waitress being presented with puzzle metaphors.

“I suppose a little transparency is needed from both sides,” he says. “My name is Erik Bishop, and I work in… real-estate.” Uh-huh. “Recently I stumbled—quite by chance—upon an answer to a problem that has plagued me for the past three years.” He gains momentum as he speaks, growing more animated. “You see, three years ago, my wife passed on. It was sudden, senseless. I was—I _am_ —devastated. She was my matched, and you can’t imagine the pain, the lengths to which I was willing to go—“

 _Irony abounds_. And yet, you’re not laughing.

“—tried everything to bring her back. Science. Mysticism. As you might imagine, nothing worked. Death is absolute. A guarantee. Money can’t buy a miracle.” He looks a little manic now. “But then, _then_ —as hopelessness set in, as I considered ending my own life in a desperate bid to rejoin my wife, I encountered the most whimsical thing.”            

Is this the part where he reveals his newfound taxidermy hobby? You’re a little nervous. Also, confused as to how this story winds up with you tied to a chair in Erik’s “real-estate” office.

“Do you recall a publicity stunt in Central Park some time ago, one ostensibly to generate interest in the Museum of Natural History?”

“Is that the one with the caveman memes?” You can’t be blamed for not remembering the specifics of the actual event. Memes have a longer shelf life.

Erik doesn’t seem to be interested in your input.

“I thought nothing of it at first; I didn’t even watch the footage. But there were whispers in some of the groups was monitoring, the factions that dealt less in reality and more in the... surreal. I knew some of the individuals were highly educated, if derided for their beliefs. They spoke excitedly of a relic coming to light in that night, a tablet forged millennia ago in ceremonies lost to time.”

He’s talking about Ahkmenrah’s tablet.

 _Oh, shit. He thinks a gold paperweight is gonna bring his dead soulmate back to life_.

You’re going to play it cool, keep a blank face and let the sad, deranged guy finish, but it’s just so _funny_. Your dead soulmate is currently clutching the tablet that this poor bastard thinks is going to revive his wife.

Haha _haha—oh, honey_.  

Out of the two of you, he’s going to need the more intensive therapy.         

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh, but it’s just— _hahahaha_ —oh, _man_.” You’d wipe your eyes, but alas. “Tell you what, if you let me go and pay for my college, I totally won’t press charges. Honestly. It’s like we’re both doing a charity.”

In hindsight, not the _best_ phrasing.

Erik née Grandpa Clothes doesn’t look particularly happy to be the punch line of your joke.

“You saw the tablet—those incompetent imbeciles gave me a preliminary report before everything went to hell—“ Oh, he’s shaking things up with some spicy language. “I assume you spoke with its owner as well.”

Yes. You also touched his butt.

“Had events gone according to plan, neither of you would have been involved last night. However, this mix-up may actually offer me more insight. If my sources are to be believed—and I have compelling evidence in support of their theories—the man who was in the truck with you last night is dead.”

Everything stops.

 _The man who was in the truck with you last night is dead_.

The closet door opens.

 _He’s dead, Jim_.

-

The crazy thing about crazy things—and crazy people—is they seem less so when you’re running mostly on adrenaline and spite. A person might even _begin_ to believe that their soulmate is a dead pharaoh with a life-giving tablet if the circumstances are weird enough and said person is tired enough.

It is, hypothetically, a Thing That Could Happen.

However, even if all those variables are true, a nap can really change a person’s outlook.

“Hey. Hey! If you’re there, God, it’s me, the prisoner you forgot in the locked room.” Actually, you don’t know if it’s locked, but you’d like to assume that they’ve taken precautions against your razor-sharp intellect and barred the door despite your bound limbs.

The door opens. You don’t hear the sliding click of a deadbolt, which is a bit disheartening.

Flunky number two appears in the doorway. He and Officer Cuddles—who is probably the illustrious “Yates”—seem to be more put together than the first guys who nabbed you. If there was a “rate my kidnapper,” you’d give these guys at least three stars. They have that hired muscle and bald lackey aesthetic.

“You need the head?”

“Um. Are shoulders, knees, and toes an option?”

“You need to piss or not?”

Well why didn’t he just say so.

“Yes,” you squeak. They let you toddle to the bathroom earlier, after Sadguy Erik finished his diatribe and left you to think it over. If by “think it over” he meant “fall into a coma,” then he should be happy with the results.

The bathroom is clean and single stalled. The upside of this is that the guard doesn’t follow you in. The downside is your extreme lack of escape routes. Your hips may not lie, but they also won’t fit through that tiny air vent.

“Two minutes,” says a voice from the door.

Oh, good. Two minutes should give you just enough time to stare blankly at your own reflection and fling silent curses into the uncaring Void. There might even be enough time to wash your face.

It turns out to be just enough time to do your business, wash up, and also decide that the drying problem in your closet probably can’t be fixed with a humidifier. Whether or not the desiccated corpse of your soulmate was caused by some really poorly thought out magic, or some other, more nefarious means, you’re not sure, but you’re also reasonably certain that intensive moisturizer isn’t going to give you back the brave, sly man that said your words. Now you’ve just got to decide whether to tell Erik that surprise! Ahkmenrah is your soulmate and is also conveniently located with his tablet in a private, unsecured area, or whether you should continue to let him operate under the assumption that Ahkmenrah marched right back to the museum last night, miraculous tablet in tow.

You could also tell him that the tablet doesn’t appear to have any magic, life-giving properties, but it’s probably best to let him figure that out on his own.

And if you don’t let him retrieve the tablet, what on earth are you going to do with Ahk’s body?

You try not to get caught up in a morbid, _Weekend at Bernie’s_ themed daydream while not-Yates leads you away from the bathroom, but you keep imagining a mummy in sunglasses. It’s not doing great things for your state of mind.

“Um. If I asked you where we’re going, would you answer?”

Not-Yates takes you to an elevator instead of back to your office prison. You hope this is one step closer to free hands and free college.

“Garage.”

You’d pester him about the details, but you’re too groggy to really give him hell.

“What time is it?”

“Dinner.”

You could point out that “dinner” isn’t a time, but _holy hell_ , you slept the whole afternoon. In an office chair. No wonder your neck feels like the curved end of a cane.

Yates and Erik are both standing by the SUV when the elevator doors slide open. Yates has a bandage around one hand.

You smile, all teeth.

 _Chloroform doesn’t last forever, asshole_.

“I hope you’ve had all your shots, buddy.” You don’t say “for both our sakes,” but you remember the taste of his blood in your mouth and cringe a little.

Erik looks jittery, unable to stop fidgeting with his hair and his phone.

“We should aim to arrive just after dusk,” he says. “This time we’re planning for the pharaoh, however. Can you handle that with your injury?”

Yates looks unamused.

“Isn’t he dead?”

“Not after sunset,” Erik says. He sounds like he’s trying to remain unaffected, but his excitement shines through.

And this is the part that really trips up your skepticism. The whole “alive until sunrise” business. According to Erik, any being affected by the tablet experiences rejuvenation at night, but who the hell designed it that way? And why? It sounds like a bunch of far-out, internet mythology shit, but you _saw_ Ahkmenrah just before sunrise. He was genuinely horrified. He was also blessedly alive.

You settle for keeping the “seeing is believing” mentality for your own sanity. If you can’t see it? Doesn’t exist. Object permanence is for squares.

-

You’ve been to the AMNH before—once—but it’s markedly different at night. There’s the obvious difference of no patrons, but the lights are all off or on low, and the exhibits cast ghastly shadows on the glass and walls. Every movement echoes.

“Didn’t you say this place comes to life at night?” you whisper. Sure, you guys are sneaking in the back way and dodging main hallways, but surely there would be _some_ sign of activity? Some glimmer of hope that elsewhere in the city, your soulmate is waking up amidst your unironed  blouses?

Honestly, you’re not even supposed to be here. Erik decided to come along at the last moment—he’s not nearly so precise now that what he wants is so close (he thinks)—and he doesn’t trust just one of his guys to take out the ancient being that took out two full grown men, no sweat. Of course, you can’t stay in the car alone because you might pee on the seat or tear up the upholstery or lay on the horn until help arrives, so that means all four of you are playing _Mission Impossible_.

Yates made very clear what would happen if you tried to run or make a scene, and you’ve demoted him to two stars on the kidnapper scale.

Erik doesn’t answer your question, but his shadowed body language says “stressed and doubtful, but rocking it.”

The Egyptian wing is empty.

Well, obviously not _empty_ empty—there are display cases and statues and a pretty rockin’ sarcophagus—but there’s no sign of life, and most disappointingly for everyone, no Ahkmenrah.

Erik is looking straight ahead at the conspicuously empty tablet display.

 _Oh, did I forget to mention that I last saw it among my unmentionables? My bad_.

You don’t know what time it is, but it was full dusk on the trip over, and you’re hoping security makes its rounds in this wing _very_ soon. You have an unbelievable sob story ready for whoever rescues you from these assholes.

“No. It has to be here.” Erik has his hands on the sarcophagus, which you’re pretty sure is frowned upon. Then again, this is the same guy who dabbles in kidnapping and assault (by way of shitty lackeys, at least), so you keep that etiquette tidbit to yourself.

“Want us to open it?”

Wait. What.

“Yes, thank you, Barrett,” Erik says, stepping out of not-Yates’s way.

“What, you think he’s going to be in _there_?” you ask, shrill.

“Where else would a mummy be?” The “idiot” is implied.

You have several answers to that, actually, and none of them are “a tomb.” The mausoleum of a museum has made you doubt, though, and you don’t think you can stand to watch them pry the lid off of the box without hyperventilating.

_What if…?_

Nope, object impermanence. It’s Schrödinger’s mummy. In there or not. Dead or not.

Wait. If they’re busy with the sarcophagus, then they’re not watching you. You back up once, bare feet silent on the marble. No one twitches in your direction. You turn and edge past a giant Anubis, breath hanging suspended in your chest.

 _Come one, come on, just step… out… of… the room_ —

The Anubis blinks.

The breath in your chest solidifies, chokes you.

 _Hoooo my god_ —

“They won’t harm you.”

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, there’s a heaving crash as the sarcophagus lid falls to the floor. You stare, eyes wateringly wide, in the opposite direction, where your soulmate stands feet away, wreathed in light from his tablet. Behind him, there’s a motley assortment of historical figures, and one nervous-looking guy in a guard uniform. A monkey sits on a wall fixture.

“There is much to discuss,” Ahkmenrah says in the moment of ringing silence as all of the room’s occupants notice each other. You can’t look away from his smooth, completely unblemished skin. He’s here. He’s _alive._ Your bound hands are shaking.

Ahkmenrah crooks the fingers of his free hand, and it is as if you are tugged inexorably into his orbit. You cross the few steps to his side, unblinking, as though the mirage will dissipate. His hand, warm, present, and very real, cups your jaw. You lean in.

“But first,” he mutters, your gazes locked. His posture is tense, a whip frozen midstrike, but his fingers are the softest pressure on your cheek.

 He barks something over you, eyes snapping, still boring into yours.

You don’t need to speak ancient Egyptian understand the meaning. Stone drags on stone as the giant guards lunge.

 _Get them_.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He mad.


End file.
